Yankee Doodle
by TaleasOldasTimeandSpace
Summary: Marianne decides to celebrate the Fourth of July. In England.
1. High Flying Flag

Marianne tied the last bow and stepped back with a satisfied grin, surveying her efforts. The tiny house was draped in red, white, and blue bunting; two flags flanked her doorway while two more waved cheerfully from the second storey windows. In her tiny scrap of a back garden, the box of assorted firecrackers and sparklers Dawn had mailed her awaited the coming dark like a squadron of bombers readying for the Blitz. All in all, it was the picture of Independence Day festivity, patriotism oozing from every star and stripe.

She saw the lace curtains twitch in her next-door neighbour's house. Her grin widening, she shot a cheeky salute to little Miss Plum with her blue hair and her army of white cats. The curtain stilled instantly, and she knew the retired teacher would be lecturing her cats about the folly of letting upstart Americans into their quiet neighbourhood.

This was going to be the most fun she'd had since before she started dating Roland.

'What on _earth_ are ye duin'?!'

The deep, irritated Scottish voice caused Marianne to jump and turn to face her other neigbour. It always amazed her that someone so tall could move so silently. She looked up – and _up_ – to meet his eye, refusing to let him intimidate her. 'What does it _look_ like I'm doing? I'm celebrating the Fourth of July, one of the most important holidays in my nation's history!'

He blinked bright blue eyes at her. In the back of her mind, she registered surprise. She'd never been close enough to see the colour of his eyes, and she'd always assumed they would be as dark as his hair and wardrobe.

'Ye _do_ realize yer in England and not America, right?'

'That fact registered sometime during the seven-hour flight over here, yeah.'

'People on this side of the Atlantic tend t'feel a wee bit dif'rent about the subject then ye du.'

Her grin returned in all of its evil glory. 'Exactly.'

'Obviously that does nae bother ye, then.'

'Nope. Besides, what do you care?' She gestured vaguely at him. 'You're Scottish. If anything, you should be _helping_ me.'

That gave him pause, and he thought about it for a minute. He looked at her house and back at Marianne. 'Ye seem t'have everything well in hand.'

She gave him her best puppy-dog eyes. ' _Please?_ All my family is back home, and I haven't really made any friends over here yet.' She hadn't _tried_ to make any friends, but that was beside the point. 'I've got hotdogs…' She could see him weakening, so she pressed onward. 'And I've got a box full of fireworks just waiting for it to get dark. My sister sent them with the hotdogs.'

He was grinning back at her now, brightening his gaunt face and displaying a rather endearing set of crooked teeth. 'Aye, Ah _sup'ose_ Ah could stick around. Ye'd prob'ly burn the whole neighbourhood down if ye light those things wi'out supervision.'

'Excellent!' She stuck out her hand. 'In that case, I think it's important to know my fellow rabble-rouser's name.'

'Mah name's Bog.' His hand engulfed her own.

'Pleased to meet you, Bog. I'm Marianne. Now, let's get this revolution started, shall we?'

He nodded solemnly. 'Up the rebels!'

* * *

 **I should be finishing Strange Science, but I got to thinking about the differences between British and American holidays, and the picture of Marianne celebrating the Fourth of July in England popped into my head, so there you go. Besides, I need a little fluff to offset the trauma of watching Face the Raven.**


	2. The Rocket's Red Glare

Bog hadn't planned on meeting his neighbour today. He hadn't really planned on meeting his neighbour at all. It wasn't that he was antisocial – okay, he _was_ antisocial, extremely antisocial. But so was she, as far as he could tell from the four months she had been living between him and Olive Plum. He felt like they had an understanding. They would exchange impersonal nods if they happened to pass in the street, and they ignored each other the rest of the time. As far as neighbours went, he couldn't complain, especially since she kept to herself and didn't throw wild parties every weekend.

So it came as a bit of a shock to be confronted with the red, white, and blue-decked house when he stepped outside that morning. It was as if a flag had exploded over her house. Which, when he actually talked to her, seemed to be the point.

She was quite pretty up close, with her messy brown hair, cat-like eyes, and dark make-up. Even better, she possessed an unexpected snarky streak that rather appealed to him. He found, in spite of the fact that this was the longest conversation they'd had since she moved in, he didn't want to disappoint her, and gave into her pleading without too much effort on her part. Besides, he'd always wanted to try a hotdog.

She was pretty handy with a grill, and they passed time eating hotdogs and swapping English jokes (mostly just repurposed dumb blonde jokes). She sang patriotic songs, and he introduced her to Irish and Scottish rebel songs. Their voices blended together surprisingly well.

When it got dark, she opened up a large box, which was stuffed with an incredible amount of firecrackers and noisemakers. He was pretty sure most of them were illegal, but hey, that wasn't really his problem.

He started pulling them out, and noticed something odd at the bottom of the box. Several somethings. He pinched one between finger and thumb and carefully drew it out. 'Uh, Marianne? What's this?'

She flicked a glance over her shoulder, saw what he was holding, and smirked. 'What does it look like?'

He held it away from his body as if was a dead, decaying rat with the potential to come back as a rodent zombie. 'It _looks_ like a paper heart.'

'If it _looks_ like a paper heart…'

'What do hearts hav' ta do wi' the Fourth of July?'

Her smirk widened, and she came over to take the heart from him. 'Absolutely nothing.' With a flourish, she tore it cleanly in half. 'It's my sister's idea of therapy. She knows me _so_ well.'

'Ye're gonna tear them all in half?'

'Oh, no. That wouldn't be satisfying at all.' He raised a questioning eyebrow, and her grin turned evil. 'We're going to _burn_ them!'

'Oh. That makes _so_ much more sense. How, exactly?'

She shrugged. 'Well, we could tie them to the rockets like suicidal astronauts, or hang them from the tree and try to hit them with the firecrackers, or maybe just build a bonfire and sacrifice them to the founding fathers. Whatever floats your boat.'

'Ye realize we'll probably get arrested for arson.'

'Only if we accidentally set the neighbourhood on fire.' She punched his arm. Hard. 'I'm not _that_ anti-English.'

'No, yer just anti-Scottish,' he muttered, rubbing his arm.

'I'll let you blow the first one,' she offered in a sing-song voice, holding out a firecracker in one hand and a heart in the other.

He thought about it, shrugged, and grabbed them. Her sister was right. It _was_ therapeutic.

They'd worked their way through about half of the box when his phone rang. He pulled it out and checked the name. Oh. Oh _dear._ 'Uh, sorry, Ah _really_ need ta take this.'

She waved a hand. 'No problem. But I can't promise there'll be any rockets by the time you're done.'

'Ah might need one for self-defense by the time Ah'm done.' He sighed and hit talk. 'Mom! Heeey!'

'Don't you "hey" me, Bog! Where are you? You were supposed to be here a half an hour ago. What happened? You're never late. Are you dead in a ditch somewhere?'

'Mom, if Ah was dead in a ditch, how wud Ah be talkn' t'ye on the phone?'

'Don't get smart with me, young man! I can still give you a spanking. I don't care how tall you've gotten. Is everything all right?'

'Ah'm _fine,_ mom. Ah just fergot, that's all.'

'You forgot our weekly mother-son dinner?!'

He winced. Honesty wasn't always the best policy, especially with his mother. 'Ah got distracted?' That wasn't much better.

'Well you'd better get your skinny carcass over here. I met a lovely girl at the grocery store today, and I invited her over. I think you two would get along beautifully.'

'Mom, no! What have Ah told ya about invitin' strange girls over fer dinner? Yer _not_ gonna set me up wi some random girl ya met at the hardware store.'

'Grocery store.'

'Whatever. Besides…' oh, this would be good. He grinned evilly. 'Ah cannea come now, mom. Ah'm at a party.' There was dead silence, and he started to worry that she had collapsed or something. 'Mom? Are ye okay?'

'Since when do you go to parties?!'

'Mah neighbour's hoisting a party specifically designed to cheese off the English.' Marianne set off another rocket with a whoop, cackling as twinkling coloured sparks and bits of burning paper heart rained down around her. 'And destroy Valentine's Day hearts with explosives, fer some reason.'

The silence indicated she needed a minute to process that. He couldn't really blame her. 'Are there any pretty girls at this party?'

He froze, staring at Marianne as she held a heart over a match. The flame danced in her eyes, and her smile stretched to insane proportions. All he could think was _yes, very pretty, why has it taken us this long to actually_ talk _to each other?_ What he said was, 'Uh…'

Which was the wrong thing to say.

'There _is_ , isn't there? What's her name? Where's she from? When are you going to bring her over to meet me?'

'Mom…'

'I carried you for ten months in my womb!'

'Mom.'

'I spent three straight days in agonizing labour bringing you into this world!'

'Mom!'

'The _least_ you can do is introduce me to the girl you'll spend the rest of your life with!'

'MOM! AH'M NOT GOING TA ASK HER TA MARRY ME THE SAME DAY WE'VE HAD OUR FIRST PROPER CONVERSATION, NAE MATTER _HOW_ PRETTY AH THINK SHE IS!'

There was dead silence. Bog didn't think he'd ever managed to render his mother speechless three times in one conversation before. He closed his eyes and cracked his neck. 'Look, mom. Ah'll come over ta see ye t'morrow, a'right? Love ye. Bye.' He ended the call before she could marshal her next salvo in the ongoing war of 'making Bog's (non-existent) love-life a living nightmare.'

'Sooo…'

He jumped as Marianne appeared at his elbow. He had forgotten she was there for a minute. Then he realized she – and probably Aunt Olive, not to mention the rest of the neighbourhood – had heard the entire conversation. Especially the last part. His face turned as red as the firecrackers.

'Marianne, Ah, uh…'

She cut him off, holding out a rocket. 'I saved you one.'

'Thanks?'

She winked. 'Don't mention it. Just light the sucker up.'

He obeyed, and together they watched it explode overhead. She swiped two cold hotdogs off the grill and offered him one, gnawing on the other with a contented sigh. 'This has been the best Fourth of July ever!'

He grinned down at her. 'Ye know what? It really has.'

* * *

 **So this was only supposed to be a oneshot, but I got this prompt from Elf Kid 2.0 on AO3:**

Next chapter: "I can't now, Mother. I'm at a party."  
"...Since when do you go to parties, Bog?"  
"My neighbor is hosting a party specifically designed to piss off the English. And destroy valentines-day hearts with explosives, for some reason."  
...

"Are there any pretty girls at this party?"

 **Which gave me evil ideas, so I ran with it. I'm thinking of turning this into a prompt-based series revolving around holidays, sort of like Holiday Inn meets Strange Magic. So send me a prompt if you've got a holiday you'd like Marianne and Bog to desecrate - I mean, celebrate. Please keep them G-rated. I can't promise I'll get to all of them, but we'll see what happens.**

 **Namarie!**


End file.
